Dreams of Our Fathers
by redlettergirl
Summary: There is a moment in every Assassin's life when he truly realizes what he sacrifices.


Sleep keeps him from properly quieting his steps as he treads to the window, squalling bundle in his arms, but he makes the attempt all the same.

The young one stops for breath, sobbing and hiccupping between ragged gasps. When light from the moon falls upon him, pouring like liquid silver through the window, Altair can see the indignation in his small face, scrunched and prepared for another caterwauling. Altair sighs and carefully adjusts his hold, rocking with arms yet stiff and anxious. (_In time_, the village women had told Maria, and he supposed it was so for him as well—_in time you will not be so frightened._) "Quiet, little one," he whispers. "You don't want to wake your mother again."

In the shadows at his back, he hears her shift and grumble, as if even now she is put upon. He thinks of the face he had woken to a moment before, the dark-cast grimace as Darim wailed and obstinately refused to take to her breast. He smiles now as he had when he drew the child from between them. Darim—who begins his bawling anew, despite his father's pleas—is most assuredly his mother's son.

Altair takes to the floor, folding his legs beneath him and tucking that small head against his arm. Altair supposes, in an odd way, that he should appreciate this moment—even with the changes he had made to the tenants of the Order, letting children grow in their own homes, it would be but a short time before the boy was too old for his father's embrace.

The crying dies down in time, as it does each night (and he hopes _that_, at least, will not last), exchanged for sniffling and tired coos. He sees, by the bare light from the window, teary eyes blink open. His son's small arms stretch up and flail, as if reaching for something Altair can't see. He chuckles through his own exhaustion, offering his hand in place of that mystery; Darim takes a finger, the grip of his small hands surprisingly strong, and puts the knuckle in his mouth.

Altair smiles (with, yes, no small hint of relief), careful not to jostle the boy as he rises to his feet. Hopefully now they will see the rest of the night go in quiet, or if not, mother and son can agree to a meal with little quarrel—

His son's slow but intentional movement catches his eye, and Altair pauses mid-thought at their bedside, raising an eyebrow. Foregoing the familiarity of his father's index finger, Darim stretches to grip the hand's other two. Altair is ready to believe his mind is playing tricks on him, but by his eyes the boy seems . . . curious of the space between, reaching to grip the stub of knuckle where another digit had once been. He coos, and Altair finds himself stopped, looking at his own hand against his son's, soft and whole.

"Must you hover, love?" comes Maria's voice from seemingly the depths of sleep, and she reaches a lazy hand out to beckon him. It shakes Altair from his revere and he nods his acknowledgement, sinking to the bed alongside her. In the quiet he kisses the top of his son's head, downy with new hair, before passing him into his mother's arms.

Altair does not sleep the remainder of the night, his thoughts still reeling as the sun rises behind the cloth across the window and Maria begins the slow process of waking. He reaches to touch her cheek, brush a finger against his son's head.

He has made changes, yes. But he realizes now that there is much more to be done.

"Flavia, come here."

Her guilt in clear in the short shuffle of her feet, the hanging of her head, the fold of her hands behind her back. She looks everywhere but at him, and it is only when (with much effort) Ezio crouches down beside her that she finally lifts her gaze.

The evening sun crawls through the windows, warm and soft as it spreads across the floor of the children's bedroom. He can still smell the scents of cooking that reached him as he passed through the main hall, the servants at work as Sofia occupied Shao Jun by some other means. If she must stay the night, he is grateful for that; he would not be able to look at her with calm blood. Sofia also took Marcello, glancing at Ezio sidelong as they left. She knew as he does—he needs to speak with his daughter.

"It is all right, you did not know," he reassures her, tucking a lock of loose hair behind her ear. She lifts her eyes higher then, but only slightly, remaining that way through a cough of his before he speaks again. "But you must be careful. It was safe now, but it may not be next time."

She nods slowly, her eyes falling to the floor again. "Yes, papa," she says, quiet, reluctant.

He gently taps the tip of her chin, guiding her to lift her eyes. "If someone like that tries to speak to you, you must come find me, do you understand?"

"But," she says, more keenly now, looking at him in full, "she wasn't bad. I saw."

"That may not always be so," he insists, his hands taking up the whole of her shoulders when he places them there. "There are dangerous men in this world. You must be careful."

"But I _saw_," she says pleadingly, as if attempting to explain something for which she has no words. Then she is shy again, twisting her fingers, swaying side to side. "I saw."

"What do you mean?" he asks, brows furrowing. "What did you see?"

Flavia stays still and quiet a moment longer, and he is about to ask her again when she lifts her hands, draws lines in the air around his form with pointed fingers. "A light," she says after a moment's thought, and even then she sounds unsure. "All over. Then I know if—if they are good or bad . . ."

She trails off into silence, and Ezio can tell his eyes have gone wide, his back stiff, and he fights to keep his grip from tightening on her shoulders. He pulls his hands back, and the motion seems to echo through her, from twisting hands into suddenly anxious eyes. "Am I not supposed to see that, papa?"

"No, no, _mia tesoro_," he says, gathering her up in his arms and running a hand over her hair, trying to calm his own heart. "This is a gift, from your grandfather and his father before. It is a wonderful thing." Slowly, he releases her, putting a hand to her cheek to keep her gaze on him. "But you must be careful. You cannot always trust your eyes. Do you understand?"

"Yes, papa," she says with a nod, and even chastened she seems more content now; he presses himself to smile, and she returns it, even giggling as he tousles her hair.

"Let us find your mother and brother," he says, standing and holding out his hand. "Dinner should be ready soon."

Flavia smiles and takes it, walking with him from the room—and Ezio, holding her hand, feels another tightening in his chest.

Connor's first instinct upon seeing the open cellar door is to prepare for the worst, crouching and creeping down the steps. Shutting the door silently behind him, he can see the glow of the torches, newly lit, hear shuffling and a quiet human sounds. He takes stock of the manor in his mind—his wife gone to visit with Ellen and Prudence, the twins slung to her back (and he is suddenly grateful for her teasing about fresh air and being able to walk properly), realizes he does not know where their eldest is. He will need to confine this to the cellar, by any means.

With a near-silent _shnk_ his blade is free, poised for attack—only for him to stop at the bottom of the steps, standing straight and staring quizzically.

Katsiya is beside the manikin in the room's center, the Assassin's garb plucked from its insubstantial shoulders and drawn across her own. Her long, dark braid drapes down, indenting the loose fabric at her back. She turns this way and that, arms spread wide, examining the outfit with short hums of appraisal.

It is too wide in the shoulders, Connor sees as he silently tucks away the hidden blade and folds his arms over his chest. Too long in the arms, as well, sleeves draping over her hands until she tugs and bunches the fabric in the crooks of her elbows. Certainly not an outfit made for someone of her size or shape.

Tucking the cloth tighter around herself, she turns and walks quickly around the corner toward—Connor stiffens—the armory. He follows in an instant, quickly but quietly, and by the time he reaches the workbench she has already plucked up a cutlass, examining it with inexperienced eye. It is only when she holds it aloft—wrist bent, elbow protruding, and of course she would not know—that he takes a strident step forward, clearing his throat.

She nearly drops the weapon, a gasp jerking from her mouth as she spins to face him. Her cheeks darken instantly. "F-father?" she stammers, and in several swift movements of the eye she seems to take in both him and the sword in her hand. She clumsily thrusts it back onto the rack, dropping her arms to her sides (flinching as the sleeves sink down over her hands, as if reminding her of their presence). "Father, I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ." she says, trailing off into quiet.

Connor's head tilts. She certainly meant _something_ by this—one does not accidentally open a secret passage door and fall into their father's uniform. Slowly, he steps forward. Katsiya stiffens, like a deer hoping to stay hidden in sparse brush.

"It does not fit you," he says matter-of-factly, and her gaze drops to the floor. He glimpses the freckles that dust her face (when had it lost a child's roundness?), wisps of hair that have escaped their plait. Arms that are not wide enough, but he knows to be strong, pulling her up along branches and over eaves. He recalls younger Katsiyas as he looks at her now, remembers words he only vaguely heard then—_"Mister Norris told me . . ."_ and _"Miss Ellen said you . . ."_ and _"Father, how did you . . .?"—_that, in a quiet instant, seem so clear.

He closes his eyes a moment, a brief and wistful pause. "But you wear it well," he says.

She lifts her chin, something in her eyes that, the longer she looks at him, brightens like a rising sun. She smiles shyly, fingers tapping a silent rhythm against her legs. "Thank you."

"But you must not touch these, Katsiya," he tells her, nodding at the weapons. Her face falls a little, but she nods nonetheless—too soon for him to finish, and he leans forward to catch her eye. "Not until you have learned how to use them."

It takes her a moment to understand him—perhaps a moment to let herself believe that she truly has. But soon her smile is back, vibrant and bright, and she covers her face with her hands and thanks him a thousand times before throwing her arms around his shoulders.

Connor slowly wraps an arm around her back, hoping to hold on a moment longer.

No one says anything as the van surges down the highway, out of Turin in the gray-aired evening. Even when the last flickers of aurora die away as if they were never there, leaving only clouds to catch the sunset light, not a word passes between them. It's not out of the ordinary, Bill thinks. They never did talk much. The only one who ever did isn't here.

A city passes by their windows—Syracuse, perhaps—in flashes of lights and dimmed sound that leave no impression when they're gone. Shaun grips the wheel, staring at the darkening road ahead as if he isn't seeing any of it, and Rebecca sits with her face in a hand, slumped against the passenger seat and looking out the side window. Bill watches them for a time before looking to his own hands, seeing them twist and grip and anxiously tap.

"So," Shaun starts, voice jarring as if cracking the heavy quiet with a pin hammer, "dare I ask if we have a plan, Bill?"

Rebecca gives him a sharp look, gesturing pointedly. "_Really_, Shaun?" Bill hears her whisper, and Shaun manages part of an explanation about reaching the Canadian border before Bill clears his throat.

"No," he answers evenly, looking to the window and the dark outside. "Not now."

They drive a half-hour more before stopping at a hotel before Rochester, Shaun murmuring as he pulls onto the off-ramp. "We could all use some sleep, I think," he says more clearly when he pulls into the parking lot and turns off the ignition. "Been . . . been a long day."

"Long few months," Rebecca murmurs, shutting the door behind her.

Their room is small, white and pink walls surrounding twin beds with hideous floral bedspreads, but he's had worse. Setting his bag down, Bill sighs and rubs his neck, fishes in his pocket for his phone.

"We're gonna hit the vending machine for some fuel," Rebecca says from the door, and he sees the anxious tap of her fingers against the wood. She's looking at him too long, even if she doesn't know it, a nervous glance he's gotten from both of them now. As if waiting for something, bracing. He doesn't like it. "Did you want anything?"

"No," he says as he extracts his phone and finds a voicemail alert, answering it without thought. "Thank you, Rebecca."

She nods stiffly and ducks out of sight. He supposes she shuts the door behind her, perhaps whispers to Shaun in that secretive way they think no one notices, but he hears none of it. Not when the automated voice reads off the number that called him.

"_So, this will be a short one, dad,"_ comes Desmond's voice, loud and clear and tinny through the receiver. "_Uh, something to remember me by if things go South; if I don't make it out of the Temple today._"

Something rushes into his chest. His breath catches in his throat. Slowly, Bill sinks to the bed, eyes fixed on the corner of a tv stand that blends into nothing.

He listens. Desmond's voice is soft but certain, never faltering for more than a moment. Cryptic, Bill realizes. He talks of Connor a moment, of his struggle and his faith, and Desmond's voice grows harder, as if he had rehearsed his next words many times. "_I can only believe that what we are doing is the right thing, that I can stop this disaster. I know this. I mean, the technology is there, waiting for us to use it. I'm the final piece of the puzzle_."

The phone is hard in William's hand, the sound of straining plastic barely touching his ear as his grip tightens. He listens. Like he's never listened before. "_Something in my genes, or my memories, some final piece of code to switch the whole thing on. That's why I'm here,_" Desmond says, solid with acceptance and responsibility.

"_Only, um._" His voice falters. "_I—I don't know what I'll have to give up in return. My sanity? My life?_"

A sound comes from Bill's own throat. Something deep, a gasp that shakes his ribs like the shutters of an old house. Desmond's voice comes on relentlessly. _Templars_ and _Temple_ and _you and mom and Shaun and Rebecca_ and—

"_If something goes wrong in there, Dad, something happens to me,"_ Desmond says quietly, as something tears at Bill from inside, deep and hidden in his chest, "_when you tell my story years from now, please tell them the one about how I lost my way, and that I found it again . . . just in time to save the world. And—and just, end it there. That will keep everyone smiling_."

William doesn't hear the creaking of the hinges as the door opens, or the sharp silencing of talk. He barely feels the footsteps that move around his feet, the hand on his back. Doesn't hear his name over the wracking of the thing inside of him, tearing his throat, his eyes burning where they bury in his palm. He only hears one voice.

"_Goodbye Dad_," Desmond says. "_Say hello to mom. Tell her I love her, okay? Tell her I—I love you both."_

Desmond makes a sound—a sniff, a sigh, _something_, and for a moment it's as if Bill can see him again. A moment. Just a moment.

"_I love you both_," says his son, and the line goes dead.


End file.
